Birth of a Legend
by ckmono
Summary: A collection of short stories, set in no particular order, concerning the Four Heroes of the Kharlan War. Major relationship spoilers. Reviews and Comments appreciated.
1. Legend 1

_**Disclaimer: **Tales of Symphonia does not belong to me,_ _but to Namco, Nintendo, and the wonderful people who created it. I am merely borrowing._

**Author's Notes: **The story takes place during the Kharlan War, approximately ten years before Martel's death.

**Warning: Important character relationship spoiled. Read at your own risk.

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**Birth of a Legend**

_Please, let them live._

It was his own desperate prayer to the guardians of life, his battle cry against the prophets of the village. A superficial balm for the festering wound of his failure and his sanity, slowly tortured by helplessness into resignation.

It was not nearly enough; words were a useless sacrifice to the iron chains of sickness. His healing arts could not break it, and all the medicine in the world could not bribe it to loosen. He frowned, very nearly bit off his tongue trying to halt an unpleasant string of words. His wife would not approve of that, especially not in front of their young daughter.

_The prophets have spoken_, the humans whispered, words of etiquette blanketed by obligatory, but not necessarily sincere, comfort. _It is fated_. He was not inclined towards hate for humans in general, but it was hard not to despise those who were blinded in their belief.

Where he was faced with excessive words from creatures too eager to please him in fear and respect of his power, he turned and was faced with the silence of those _he_ believed in. Where once they guarded, provided for, and upheld the promise of life together, they now cheated him with death.

_We do not know why_, they answered to his fear-stricken pleas, t_hey were fated for things that would change the world; yet we felt such a terrible, suffocating sense of foreboding. We must do this; we must uphold our vow, and our duty, though it no longer belongs solely to us. _The voices filled him, overwhelmed him, comforted him, and grieved despairingly with him.

_The prophets have spoken our silent will_.

Ever after, the voices were silent, and their presence left him except in battle. They were a near-invincible force. Behind it all sat a man, swallowed and broken by his duty and his passion. Fallen. Useless.

"Mother...mother and the baby...they will be fine, won't they?" The voice was faint enough to be ignored; to him, it was a bright and innocent melody in the thunderous symphony of life flowing through his veins and suffusing the world. He smoothed some of her green-tinted wheat-golden hair -- _blessed by the Great Tree_, _his wife's voice whispered_ -- gently, wiping the sweat off her clammy forehead.

"Yes, Martel, they will be. Do not trouble yourself, daughter. This unnatural sickness gnaws at you, when it has already left everyone else. Sleep; I will awake you when all is well." The girl, no more than seven years of age, smiled serenely at the smooth, almost song-like quality of her father's voice.

"The prophets and the spirits -- they say that the baby and I must die." The girl whispered after she heard a choked cry from an adjacent room.

"Do not speak of such foolishness. You will live." He replied fiercely, his eyes lighting with determination even as hope bled slowly out of his heart.

"You'll help mother and the baby then? And me?" He grasped the bed-ridden girl's hand, squeezing it comfortingly. She smiled.

"Then don't be so sad, please? You said that I would live, didn't you?" The girl continued, "I believe you."

He blinked at her, had time to wish reverently that this pure love his daughter had for all life would not disappear; had time to pray that prejudice would not be a cause to hate herself and her family in the future. The olive-green eyes smiled at him from the bed through a sickly haze.

He had time to realize that for once, no one mattered but him, the child's mother, and their unconditional love for their children.

The harsh wail of a glorious new life interrupted, followed by the relieved exclamations of the midwife and nursemaids. Lastly, the soft sobs of his human wife told him she was being stubborn and holding her emotions in again.

"It seems as if your mother and sibling have also decided to defy the so-called fate." He chuckled. Leaning towards the bed, he easily lifted the sickly girl in his arms, "Let us go met them."

The girl's answer was a happy and excited nod, despite the late hour.

Father and daughter entered the room, just as the nursemaids hastily cleaned up the remains of the labour. Respect and sincere congratulations showed in equal measures in their eyes. To their young mistress they shared their happiness, and offered to bring her favourite blanket.

From the large bed lined with clean sheets, his wife gave a tired and teary smile, "He was quite stubborn to get a few centuries in before he obeyed the prophets' wishes." She joked quietly.

"The stubbornness is much like you." He replied, coming to sit on the bed, placing their daughter in his lap. He scrutinized her under the moonlight, and hoped that the paleness of her skin and lips were just illusions of the silver light.

The next moment, he was holding his wife's head to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, combing with long fingers through her light-brown hair, and murmuring his ecstasy into her exposed ear. The small girl in his arms circled his wife's head softly with one arm, and leaned into her shoulder.

"Thank you, mother, for helping my little brother live." She said quietly, and brought another sob from the woman. After a few moments, his wife leaned away, and smiled as he wiped away her tears with the edge of the blanket.

"May I meet my little brother?" The girl asked, and suppressed a cough.

"Of course, Martel," Her mother smiled, but frowned a moment later, "Your fever...?" She looked to her husband inquiringly.

"Has broken, though she is exhausted, and the sickness has not left." He answered, and she sighed. He pinned Martel with a look.

"I promise, I shall sleep as soon as I've met my little brother," The little girl smiled tiredly, a hint of playfulness touching her eyes. She leaned forward in her father's embrace, peering at the bundle in her mother's arms.

"What is his name?" She asked quietly, fingers stroking the soft skin and the sparse hair, golden like his father.

"His name, your mother and I had decided, is Mithos." Her father answered.

"Mithos." Martel repeated, "I'm very happy to meet you. I'm Martel, your sister. It is very late now, and I don't want you to end up being sick too because of me, so I'm going to sleep. Good night, and see you tomorrow." She took a tiny hand, squeezed it in greeting, and smiled brilliantly at the infant.

"Goodnight, father, mother." She said, giving each of them a hug.

"Goodnight, Martel." Her mother answered as she got off the bed, "Remember your medicine."

"I will." The girl replied, stifling a yawn and smiling at them before she closed the door to her parents' bedroom.

"You should check on her later, as she will probably be too tired and forget the medicine. She was always somewhat forgetful, despite her strong sense of responsibility. Much like you, actually." His wife said with a smile.

"And you would not exchange either of us for the world, despite all our forgetfulness." He smiled back.

"Yet I can surely exchange the world for both of you," His wife said quietly, loosening her sleeping garments, "And now also for this little one. Mithos."

"Indeed," He replied, "Mithos has us wrapped around his tiny fingers already." As the baby suckled, he nudged playfully at the small fist.

After a moment's silence, he sighed, "It is a harsh world for half-elves and those who birthed them. I do not expect to be there to see them grow up."

"And neither do I." His wife's eyes were downcast, then rose to meet his, "But the prophets and the spirits were of no obstacle to us. Our children will defeat the hate of this world."

_My thoughts exactly_, he agreed silently, still looking at the baby. It was true. From all the signs of the persistent sickness that plagued Martel and his wife, this early labour should have killed Mithos. He knew that since the spirits lived and died with the world, they would know its fate intimately.

Tonight, no one died. A true testimony of the vow he made. A vow of life.

_They would change the world_, he agreed with the spirits as Mithos finished his meal, was burped, and fell slowly asleep in the rocking cradle of his mother's arms. Looking at the peacefully sleeping infant, he felt something well up inside him; a great power, the culmination of all that was good in this war-ravaged world.

Amidst the light there was darkness. A spreading darkness that mingled with the light, threatened to engulf it. He cleared his mind. _No, he would defeat the hate, I know it. Such a powerful sense of destiny would not be wasted._

_We would not always be here, Mithos_, he thought as his wife returned to bed from placing the baby in a nearby crib, _I trust you to protect yourself, and protect your sister. Live, and defeat the senseless hate of this miserable world_.

_Perhaps then, it would have some semblance of peace._

He left his wife and new son briefly to see Martel, and as his wife predicted, she had forgotten her medicine, now asleep in her favourite blanket. Her hands were curled into fists under her chin, much like Mithos.

He smiled, and decided that just one night without the medicine, only plenty of rest, would be okay.

Martel was strong, and so was Mithos.

_It would take much more than that to take away my children_, he thought with conviction as he returned silently to bed with his wife, _I will see to it_.

_The love of a family is not to be underestimated._


	2. Legend 2

_**Disclaimer:** Tales of Symphonia does not belong to me, but to the wonderful people at Namco Tales Studio, Nintendo, and Sony Playstation that brought this game to us. I am merely borrrowing._

**Author's notes:** The story takes place the year before Martel dies. That is to say, Martel does not live to go to the next Festival of Life. Secondly, I have taken the liberty to call the world during that time "Symphonia". I have not finished the game myself, and therefore do not know what it should be called. Thirdly, I will be assuming that "Noishe" was already in his Land Animal state during the Kharlan War. Lastly, I have taken liberties with Martel and Mithos' ages, as I do not know how old they were, or if they share the same age difference as Genis and Raine.

**Warning:** **major character relationship spoilers. You have been warned.**

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**Festival of Life**

She remembers exclaiming in delight that it is just like her hair and her eyes.

Perhaps she is too proud, too pretentious; she has, after that day, always believed in that mystic bond between her and the Tree. It is a bond that stretches further than the billowing ribbons of leaves that adorns her ceremonial dance dress, touches deeper than the celestial beauty of the Elves. She remembers the golden-green shadows of the boughs, so much like her tresses; the leaves that murmurs and whispers at her upturned face, reflecting the green of her eyes in a thousand more hues.

There are other things like that. Things like how the earth smells around it, warm and musky and damp. It is how deep and rich a chestnut-brown color the bark holds, a reassuring contrast against her paler skin; it speaks of the vast and tiny difference between all life. She sees it in the red and brown -- just like her mother's shawl -- leaves, returning silently into the ground from whence they grow, never to be seen again, but always remembered for their beauty. At night, the sparkle of Luna's dress casts soft silver on the green, its ethereal glow matching her father's hair. Then she remembers smiling at the twisted shadows and fuzzy outlines of the night-Tree, even if she had been afraid. Even now, she remembers the first greeting the Tree gave her -- a playful root that made her scrape her hand against the touch bark and dirty her dress on the scented earth.

Mithos had been angry, she remembers wit a smile as she plaids a crown of leaves into her hair. So young, and already fiercely protective, his toddler leg shooting out brashly to kick against the root. It hurt him, made him wince, but he didn't cry out.

She stopped his anger at the tree, soothed his worries, and tried to explain, as well as a ten-year-old could explain to a three-year-old, that the tree was already teaching her something new in all that she saw. Something she still carries with her even now, will carry to the day she dies, because it is a truth bigger than the world.

She didn't need to be like the Elves, she remembers herself saying as she pulls on light dance shoes, the color of shaded leaves at the bottom of the Tree. She didn't need to know all about how magical and important the tree was, or its grand history, to know what it was trying to teach her.

_Even though the Elves planted the seed_, she hears her young voice explain to Mithos' curious aquamarine eyes, _the Tree doesn't know about Dherris-Kharlan. It only knows about here. So it lives in this world just like we do, Mithos. The Tree is different, and it's scary sometimes, just like how humans and elves are different and how we are different and how bugs and animals are different. But we all still live here, Mithos. If we all hate each other and then fight all day, then we would all die. I think the Tree knows this. That's why it loves everyone even if it's different from everyone else. We should follow the Tree's example_.

_So no one else has to die anymore?_ She hears toddler-Mithos ask as she takes a last look at the full-length mirror nearby and flips her flowing hair around her shoulders in a pleasing and natural way.

_Yes_, she hears her young self answer brightly as she grabs her staff, leaning nearby. It is crafted with silver birch from Ozette, both ends set with a dull-golden alloy. Magically suspended at the top of the staff are three emerald-green rings, consecutively smaller from bottom to top, flanked by a pair of wings made of the same material -- Expheres mined from the Toize Valley Mine.

She knows that her answer as a child was too idealistic. It saddens her, but she accepts it, just as she knows the Tree does. She knows that there are elves, humans, half-elves, plants, animals, bugs, and many other things that still die before their time. She still glances into her enemy's eyes regretfully before they crumple under her powerful spells, and she still refuses to leave a battle scene until she has had a moment to pray. Mithos is ultimately confused as to why she does this. Kratos thinks she is still too soft-hearted for her own good. Yuan smiles, a small, gentle, bemused, fond smile at her noble habit.

But she knows they understand to some degree, and show their acceptance and respect, even of the enemy. Mithos will pray sometimes with her. Kratos will tell her that sometimes at night, when it is his turn on the night-watch, he will look into the stars and remember a particular opponent he fought today, and salute them in his mind for their lives, and for a battle well-fought.

Yuan will often incinerate their enemies' bodies; he claimed it was to clean up the trail of dead monsters they could possibly leave behind them. Then he glances at her, and she smiles, and thanks Yuan for saving the bodies from the indignity of being left there for scavengers. Yuan is used to fighting, used to seeing armies of people killed, be it elves, humans, or half-elves. He does not accept his enemy as another life. He believes that when someone voluntarily provokes another to fight, the assailant throws away their right to live. In his black-and-white world, however, she knows that Yuan does respect the courage and strength of his enemies.

For the sake of all life in this world, the four of them would continue to fight, continue to kill, and hope for the day the world will forgive their actions with peace.

"Sister! Come on!" Mithos' excited voice urges from beyond the door. She smiles, and derails the philosophical train of thoughts.

"So, how do I look?" She asks as she steps out with a smile. Mithos' eyes light up, and answer her with a grin.

"Martel." Kratos' voice greets quietly as he approaches. He stares at her for a moment, before smiling softly.

"You look wonderful." He comments bluntly, like Martel knows he would. Kratos does not mince or decorate his words, whether they are compliments or harsh reprimands when he trains Mithos. Beside him, the Protozoan "Noishe" barks happily, and Martel notices that Kratos has a hand on its flank to keep it from a more physical and wet greeting.

"And hello to you to, Noishe." She smiles and rubs the canine creature's face with both hands gently.

"You better not ruin Martel's dress." Mithos mutters, and Noishe gives him a look that clearly says, _'I know better than that, you brat'_. Nevertheless, Mithos grins and pets its head, and Noishe woofs.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Martel sees Mithos beaming quietly. He could even be _gloating_ a little in pride of his older sister; it is the first time Kratos and Yuan have been to this annual ceremony. Mithos is thirteen now, he has seen it several times since he was three, but that does not dim his excitement in the least.

"Kratos, where -- " A moment later Yuan's cloak, the color of storm clouds in the late evening sky, came swishing into view. He stops upon taking a few steps, _mesmerized_.

Martel smiles, and takes the last few steps to stand in front of him, Mithos and Kratos following. She brushes some stray cerulean bangs into place, and smiles shyly, "What do you think?"

Yuan's eyes, a shade deeper than his hair, blinks at her, not understanding. Mithos is no longer smiling, but watching Yuan with a guarded expression. Kratos rolls his eyes at his friend.

"Please come up with something more creative than 'beautiful does not do you justice'." He says dryly. Mithos snickers a little. Yuan's expression becomes less fish-faced, and betrays nothing, but Martel notices the twitch of his hands and the small bolt of electricity that jumps between his fingers.

She glances at Kratos, and could swear that he almost laughed.

Yuan opens his mouth to say something, but Martel feels an insistent tug on one of her wrists. "Come on, sister, it's about to start!" He announces brightly, and ignores the annoyed glare Yuan sends him. When he pulls her away, Martel hearsa distinct crackle of electricity.

Nevertheless, he and Kratos follow the siblings. Martel hears Kratos whisper something to Yuan, something about "_drop to your knees_". A moment later Yuan has enveloped his fist in electricity and is holding it threateningly in front of Kratos' face, and Martel is surprised to see a faint _blush_ on his face. Beside Kratos, Noishe has apparently heard the comment with his sensitive hearing, and wags his tail and barks at Yuan, which causes his blush to deepen. She dismisses the interaction, however, when she hears the faint festive music as they approach the grounds around the Tree.

The festival is wonderful, and Martel does not, and will not ever tire of it. There is a wealth of things to be bought from the stands; artisans, blacksmiths, farmers, potion masters, coming from all over Symphonia to display the results of their efforts. They stop by the hotel, and drag out the box of extra weapons, shields, guards, cloaks and robes, and Noishe helps them to carry it to the Customization Shop. As well, there were two medium-sized bags containing furs and hides, and ores and other miscellaneous items. The rugged and muscled elf who is the owner of the shop is a good friend of the Yggdrasil family, and promises them he will finish customizing the items they have indicated on the displayed list by tomorrow. He flirts jokingly, blatantly with Martel, and when he catches Yuan's disapproving look, he laughs and tells him that 'your _goddess_ is safe from this perverted elf'. Yuan scoffs, says he's not worried, as Martel knows he is wont to do when embarrassed.

As they pass through the festival grounds, it strikes Martel once again thereare all kinds of people gathered here, and there is no hate that existed in abundance in this time. It is as if the presence of the Tree reminded them, that this was a celebration of all life. There are, however, even lesser people than she remembers coming last year, but she will not worry about that today.

In the afternoon, when the group pays a visit to the Tree, to the dances of the younger children, a group of half-elves nudge their friend towards Martel. Boldly, he holds out a bouquet of flowers, and professes, in somewhat vague terms, his feelings for her. Martel thanks him, and apologizes that she cannot keep the flowers with her on their journey. The young man smiles and waves the matter off; his expectant look for her response though, is cut short by a quiet growl and two unnerving stares.

Kratos chuckles -- the closest thing Martel has ever heard to a laugh from him -- and tells the young man that while he can ignore Noishe, it is not wise to disregard either of the other half-elves. _Especially not on this day_, Kratos adds on with a slightly smug tone Martel has never heard him use. Yuan glares at him, scoffs, and walks away.

Mithos mutters something about an important day and having enough stress, and out loud orders the other half-elf to _leave his sister alone, she's got someone already_. Martel raises her eyebrows; it is the first time Mithos so openly acknowledged the bond between Yuan and herself. He smiles at her questioning look, and shrugs it off as dismissing unworthy suitors.

At night, under the twisted shadows and fuzzy outlines of the branches, under the green leaves cast with silver coats, she dances with the swaying boughs in the breeze, drowning in the sweet melodies of a special dance song a human minstrel friend of her parents composed just for her. The audience welcomes her warmly; she has not been here for three years straight due to the war worsening.

There is no campfire nearby to light her way; she relies on the moonlight shining through an especially large gap in the branches, and through the many smaller gaps surrounding that. The comforting presence of _life_ surrounds her, and she throws her arms outwards to embrace it, showing her soul and her beliefs to all those present in her dance.

As she twirls and leaps she catches sight of Mithos, pure adoration and pride shining in his eyes. Beside him, Kratos smiles again, his normally hard auburn eyes softened by the silver of Luna. Lastly, as she turns in their direction again in the circle of audiences, she sees Yuan, his drink halfway to his lips, staring at her with a slightly open mouth. The moonlight reflects in his eyes like a single bright star, and Martel blushes a little at the intensity of his stare. Then she almost giggles out loud; Noishe sniffs at the cup before lapping up the liquid inside carefully, and Yuan does not notice.

Later at night, she knows that Yuan will come find her again in the moonlight-dappled ground under the Tree. She knows also that even though she is warm enough with her robe, Yuan will automatically make it sleepy-warm by wrapping her in his cloak. Martel smiles as she throws her arms out, and turns her face upwards to the full moon just as the music strikes the final note. She is curious as to what Kratos had whispered to him earlier, and wonders if it will be okay if she asks him.

He does come, when Mithos is deeply asleep, near midnight, and she does find out what that whispering was all about. Soon, Martel is enveloped in Yuan's strong embrace, and he murmurs his _happiness_ into her hair as if the emotions in him had been discharged as quickly and violently as lightning, enough to set her soul on fire. The back of her mind notes that Kratos has probably sent Noishe to stand guard over them nearby, because he is ever the cautious one, even if they are perfectly safe for this night. She knows also, that Mithos has exhausted more energy today than is good for his health, and would not wake up once through the night. For the moment, she could care less.

The next day, Kratos wakes up first, as usual, and decides that Mithos is obviously too tired to be woken up for early-morning training. He does not spare the other beds a glance before walking out, and makes his way to the Giant Kharlan Tree.

He finds them, asleep between two considerably large roots, the sunlight playing on their faces. Martel lies limply against Yuan, covered in his cloak, and Yuan is leaning against the Tree, an arm about Martel's waist and the other habitually resting near his weapon, propped up against the Tree. Noishe is curled up nearby as well.

A ring gleams cheerfully on one of Martel's hands, peeking out of the folds of Yuan's cloak, and on Yuan's hand, holding Martel's body close. Kratos leans over carefully, and notices the initials "Y" and "M" on them. At this moment, Noishe's black eyes blink open sleepily, and he manages a soft woof in greeting. He stands up, stretches, and butts Yuan's leg gently with his muzzle.

"Let them sleep for a while; people are coming out, they'll be safe." Kratos murmurs to the Protozoan.

Kratos and Noishe walk leisurely back to the hotel together; the swordsman spares the couple a glance, and smiles. He knows that this kind of acceptance, respect, and love is what Martel and the Tree hoped for. He looks back at the Tree, notices that its green seems a little browner, and frowns. Noishe follows his gaze, and whines quietly.

"You know, don't you?" He asks Noishe quietly. Noishe does not reply, of course, but his tail seems a little less lively.

Kratos thinks it a bit foolish to be talking in his mind to a tree, but time with Martel, he knows, is capable of changing any person. He allows sentimental thoughts to intrude upon his mind more often now, instead of burying them safely away in his heart.

_Please_, he thinks, _hold on_. _We will play our part to end the war, to end the hate, and you will flourish again_.

One day in all the tomorrows to come, you will see the world dance under your shade in the joy I saw yesterday, in the joy of Martel's dance. The joy that we are all fighting for today.

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**End Notes:** Inspired by Raine's dance at the Asgard wind temple, and Martel's love for the Giant Kharlan Tree. 


	3. Legend 3

_Disclaimer:_ _Tales of Symphonia and everything associated do not belong to me. They are the wonderful products of Namco and all other companies associated with this project._

**Warning:** Spoiler for an important character relationship. _You have been warned_.

**Author's Notes:** Real life took quite a busy turn these past months, but I'm glad I found some time to write. The story takes place during Mithos' childhood.

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**Justified**

Mithos remembered the first time he killed. That seemed like decades ago--or maybe it was.

News of a band of robbers came one day to a village of mixed inhabitants. The gist of it, before the messenger died of wounds, was that it was a big crowd. There were supposedly a few mages in there as well, just for kicks. He remembered that they were planning to stay there overnight, having just visited the Elder at the Latheon Gorge. Then, they would go back to Heimdall. It had been decided, and advised, that the roads were unsafe at night.

He wasn't going to think about whether the villagers were ignorant, or if they purposefully kept his family in the path of danger just so they could have some form of protection. Not that it mattered, for the outcome was the same.

He woke up during the night, being shaken rather harshly by Martel, to shrieks and a call to arms. A bolt of lightning crashed to the ground outside the small inn, and its energy shattered the windows. Martel pulled him out of the bed, and forced him to the ground. They crouched there, clutching each other, him trembling, until their mother finished her frantic packing. Martel jerked his small cloak down from the hook nearby, tearing a small hole, and wrapped it around him. They ran to their mother, avoiding the brightness of the lightning and growing fire outside.

The chaos outside was a blur of fire and shadows to him, not memorable except for his mother's gasp of pain and Martel's terrified sob.

"No one leaves tonight, lady. The roads are closed." They crouched, fifty paces from the exit, their mother gasping and shaking against the magic of poison, trying and failing to pull the arrow from her leg.

In his fright, he managed to remember what his mother told him about robbers. Reaching into their pack, he snatched the money pouch they had, and threw it to the man. The man emptied its contents, snorted disdainfully, and threw it back, a coin glancing the bone beneath Mithos' eyes, hard. Mithos glared at his smug grin, anger boiling in his small body.

What happens next Mithos preferred not to remember in full detail, but in flashes: The hole of jagged flesh the arrow made as it left her mother's leg in his angry hands. The tiny balls of fire shooting forth from his kendama. Jumping up, reaching with one arm to grab the man's sword arm, nursing his burning eyes. Another arm, reaching as high as possible with the poison arrow--

Mithos remembered how Martel stared at him, but that's not right, she's supposed to be thanking him, supposed to be admiring his courage and strength and _what had he just done_?

"It was an accident, and justifiable. You were trying to save your mother and sister." His father told him as he released the arrow like he'd been badly shocked.

"It's not your fault. It was self defense." His mother told him with tears in her eyes, in the dead of night afterwards when she found him shaking violently in the bedroll.

Martel never said anything to him. Thanked him, yes, but Mithos remembered feeling that such a word was so _common_; he wanted something _rarer_, something like a compliment, something like _strong_ and _brave _and _heroic _and--

_And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I scared you, Martel._

He saw the truth in her green eyes, saw through lie hisparents witnessed. He promised himself that no matter how reasonable his parents sounded, he would apologize to Martel--for what he didn't know, but if Martel needed that comfort, needed that reassurance, then Mithos would give it.

Mithos wondered when he forgot that promise, or if he bothered remembering it at all beyond that first night.

But that didn't matter. After all, he did it to save them all; that robber, he didn't want the money, he wanted the _lives_ cowering in front of him. Mithos was perfectly justified in his actions, and he knew that Martel knew.

Surfacing from his memories, Mithos wondered _what was there to apologize for, to give comfort and reassurance for in the first place_?

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**Author's Notes:**

Comments, criticisms, and questions welcomed and much appreciated.


End file.
